


Measures

by rukafais



Series: A Little Rain [1]
Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Gen, i posted this on ffnet first, to my eternal shame, when will i write about normal human beings? approximately never
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:18:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the basements of Alexandria Castle, something stirs, and three war machines get their first taste of life and a sense of their own places in the world. A prologue, and a one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measures

**Author's Note:**

> as always: final fantasy 9 and all related characters are not mine, i just make up lame headcanons for them, they belong to the gargantuan machine that is squeenix

“This one is perfect!”

“Perfect, it is!”

The voices are jovial, and loud, and they  _hurt._ Their loudness digs claws into his ears, and he grunts, shaking himself into awareness to see what the matter is.

Number One, who he knows instinctively, is still sleeping in their chilled chamber; nestled in ice crystals, wings wrapped close. He looks around, still sleepy, and finds himself afloat in some kind of warm liquid. It makes his magic sing; it fills a gap in him that he is not quite aware he had.

The outside of the pod is glass, and he peers through to see what the voices are talking about. There is another one nestled in an open pod, different from himself, different from Number One; they spark angrily, immediately hostile, and lurch forward out of their nest - still clumsy from the creation process.

Three - it must be Three, he’s heard enough that he knows there will only be three of them - buckles to their knees, still suffering the aftereffects. More laughter and chatter, quieter now; blurred and muffled through the glass. He feels sympathy, or the closest equivalent to it; when he was first made, he was dizzy too.

He taps at the glass; the newly-made mage turns to look at the source of the sound, then looks away, struggling to support themselves on their staff. It slips away, rattling as it shoots across the floor, and Three hits the ground with a thud and an angry flutter of wings that makes him wince.

 _I could have told them that wouldn’t have worked,_ One comments mildly. _They’re still too weak._

 _They are stubborn, I guess._ He shrugs, drowsiness overtaking him again in waves as he relaxes, floating away from the glass.

 _I heard that!_ The new voice is sharp and sudden.

 _Of course you did,_ One says, sounding drowsy. _We’re all linked...after all..._

There is a moment of mental silence.

 _They have gone back to sleep,_ he explains. _When we are not being tested, we are kept in these special containers so we will not wander around and cause people to ask questions._

 _That is stupid,_ Three snaps; Two fancies he can hear the crackle of lightning in their voice. _We have our own minds!_

 _If you want to argue, go ahead,_ he suggests, already drifting off. _But you are new, and not yet strong enough._

 _I_ will _be_ , Three says darkly. From his position in the pod, Two can see a brief, blue light that illuminates the room and distracts the jesters from their chatter. _I will be._

They make good on their frankly sinister promise, days later, when they are being tested. Number Three blasts apart whatever they’re told to; sometimes they spark dangerously and send errant bolts towards the jesters, or fragile equipment (but never the pods of their two compatriots).

It’s excused as a volatile side-effect. The way Three’s eyes crinkle when they do it, both Two and One know that it’s entirely on purpose that they come close to shocking Zorn and Thorn. Their control over their power is iron-fisted; their temper, less so - but when they are clear-minded they aim with precision.

Number Two has more variety in his casting, lightning and fire and ice dancing at his fingertips. He is the most versatile of them, and his aerial skills - what little of them he can show in the basement - are quite possibly unmatched. He hears talk of aircraft, smaller and swifter than the lumbering cargo models he’s heard about, and he wants to race them.

He tests out his teleportation capabilities under watchful eyes; short blinks at first, then longer, then even longer, until he can teleport across a room without flinching. He wonders if he could teleport out of the place entirely, but he puts it out of his mind; One and Three don’t have the same kind of power he does to do that. It would be unfair to leave them behind.

(He is already getting attached.)

Number One likes the cold; he can’t imagine why. It doesn’t seem to bother them in the least, though it could have something to do with his magic.

_“Ice giant, Sealion...”_

They spend hours going through the steps and the ritual of it while Two and Three nap or watch from the sidelines, listening to the jesters chatter about “eidolons” and “summoners” and “difficulties”.

The first time One summons the ‘eidolon’ - Two learns that this is what summoned monsters are called, after extensive eavesdropping when pretending to be asleep - they have to do steps, and say quite a lot of words, and even then it doesn’t quite work. The shell appears, but the monster doesn’t; they try again, and again, until their magic is exhausted.

 _Are you ever going to sleep?_ Three is irritable again (and they get irritable quickly), after half an hour of muffled muttering from One’s pod. All three are in pods again; now they rest, until they are called for. _Do it in your dreams, if you_ must _practice, but do you have to say it out loud?_

 _The words are part of the ritual,_ One whispers softly; they sound exhausted. _I must practice until I can summon with only the barest minimum. Eidolons do not naturally obey..._

 _I heard that eidolons were sentient creatures_ , Two says thoughtfully. _Perhaps you might try negotiating with it?_

A snort that Two can hear even through glass; he bristles momentarily. _And do not laugh, Number Three! You do not have any more knowledge than I do!_

_Negotiating with a monster?_

_Careful who you use that word on_ , One interrupts. _Technically, we are all monsters here._

Despite that quick discussion, it apparently works. One has an accelerated degree of success from then on. Two and Three share a strange, fleeting sense of some emotion they can’t recognise.

(Pride.)

It is weeks before they are presented; the jesters do not tell them to mind their manners or anything of the sort. Two sighs inwardly; he knows why. Looking at his companions, he _knows_ they know why.

They are puppets, mindless dolls, war machines. Why would they need to be told anything except their orders, who and what to destroy?

 


End file.
